


The Twelve Days of Christmas

by TelWoman



Series: Stories written as Christmas gifts [2]
Category: Eroica Yori Ai o Komete | From Eroica with Love
Genre: Gen, M/M, Mostly Christmas fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-08 08:18:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 8,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5490197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TelWoman/pseuds/TelWoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of snapshots from the twelve days of a Christmas that brought some changes in the lives of Klaus and Dorian.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. On the first day of Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas to Eroicafen everywhere.

 

 

**On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me a partridge in a pear tree**

**_In which Bonham finds a visitor in the chicken run_**

 

Bonham let himself in to the old apple and pear orchard that now served as the Castle Gloria chicken run. In good weather, twenty-four brown, white, and speckled hens scratched about under the trees. Lately, it had been cold, and there had even been a light fall of snow, so the hens were shut in their spacious hen-house. Bonham poured grain into the feeding trough, made sure the system that topped up the hens’ drinking water was working properly, and gathered up the eggs. Christmas Day, and the hens were still working hard as ever. Even thieves had the day off!

He started back toward the house, egg-basket in hand. As he trudged through the orchard, he noticed a squat brown and grey bird at the foot of one of the old pear trees. His first thought was that one of the hens had got out, so he headed over toward the tree to shoo her back to the henhouse.

As soon as she saw him approaching the bird took to the air with noisily beating wings, and landed on the lower branch of another pear tree. 

“Not a hen at all,” Bonham realised. “It’s a bloody partridge.”

He walked jauntily back to the kitchen, humming to himself: _On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…_

 

 

 


	2. On the second day of Christmas

**On the second day of Christmas my true love gave to me two turtle doves**

**_In which Klaus decides enough is enough_ **

 

December 26th dawned. Klaus woke at 6:30am, as was his custom. 

The house was quiet. His father had not been feeling well lately and had chosen to stay in Switzerland for Christmas. Naturally, he’d urged Klaus to come and spend Christmas with him, but Klaus had resisted, saying he had too much work on, and would have to be on call through the holidays. That was partly true. He did have a heavy caseload just now, and he’d worked until after ten on Christmas Eve. 

Herr Hinkel prepared a modest Christmas lunch, and he’d put the Christmas tree up in the big drawing room as he always did, but with only the two of them there Christmas Day was a quiet affair at Schloss Eberbach. Klaus declined to go to Mass. Herr Hinkel looked put out, but went along by himself, mumbling about ‘representing the family’.

Few gifts were exchanged. Klaus had Frau Geiszler buy modest gifts for all the staff – including herself – and he left it to her to wrap them and make sure they were given to the right recipients. Klaus gave a small gift to Herr Hinkel in person – on Christmas Day instead of Christmas Eve, because the old man had been in bed asleep by the time Klaus got home that night. A gift was sent by mail to Klaus’s father in Switzerland; Klaus left the selection and dispatch to Herr Hinkel, who was careful to buy something expensive enough to suggest filial respect.

On the morning of the 26th, Klaus went down to eat his breakfast at the usual time. 

Herr Hinkel appeared, looking cheerful. “Good morning, Master Klaus,” he said brightly, pouring out Klaus’s first cup of strong black Nescafé. “A box has arrived for you. Shall I bring it in?”

“What box?” Suspicion narrowed Klaus’s eyes. “I’m not expecting any deliveries.”

Herr Hinkel reappeared carrying a large rectangular package festively wrapped in white and gold paper, and placed it on the table. “It was on the doorstep this morning, Master Klaus. It must have been delivered very early.”

Klaus grunted. He sipped his coffee, all the while scowling at the package. He finished his food, drank another cup of coffee, and waited until Herr Hinkel had cleared away the dishes and gone off to begin his daily round of housework.

Mistrustful, careful, Klaus turned the package around, inspecting it from all angles. He lifted it cautiously, hefting its weight, tipping it gently at first and then shaking it. He replaced it on the table top, got out his Swiss army knife, and cut the wrapping paper away neatly.

The box inside was a rich, tasteful shade of red, the satiny cardboard subtly embossed. He raised the lid.

On a bed of white tissue paper nestled a bottle of dark amber liquid: fine Scotch whisky, The Balvenie 40 year old single malt. Klaus lifted out the small card that lay beside the bottle. A delicate line of music curved across it, and in fine italic script, “On the second day of Christmas my true love gave to me two turtle doves.” Below that, elegantly inscribed in dark red ink: “From Eroica, with love.” 

Klaus’s lip curled. Somehow, though, he couldn’t feel angry, although for just a moment he tried. 

He looked out through the window at the frosty garden, where two turtle doves circled each other solemnly, bowing their heads and fanning their tails in a formal courtship dance.

Klaus shook his head. He and Eroica had been circling each other for years. Maybe it was time for the circling to stop.

 

 

 


	3. On the third day of Christmas

 

 

**On the third day of Christmas my true love gave to me three French hens**

**_In which Dorian drowns his sorrows_ **

 

Dorian gave the waiter a melancholy smile as a fresh cocktail glass was placed on the table and the empty one picked up.

“Can I get you anything else, sir?”

“No, not just now,” Dorian murmured. 

The mingled scents of cucumber, rose petals, elderflowers and citrus teased his nostrils as he sipped deeply. _If I’m going to drown my sorrows, I might as well drink something elegant to do it,_ he thought. Resting his forehead on the cold window pane, Dorian stared pensively out at the snow-covered ground. _Deep and crisp and even,_ he mused, and took another sip.

The sound of heavy footsteps pulled his attention away from the window, and Dorian turned around to see—

“Major von dem Eberbach! As I live and breathe! What are you doing in England?”

Without replying, the Major pulled out the other chair at Dorian’s table and sat down. His nose twitched in disapproval as the cocktail’s flowery perfume hit his nostrils.

Dorian giggled. “Rabbits do that, Major.”

“What are you talking about, you idiot? Are you drunk?”

“Drunk, Major?” Dorian drew himself up straighter. “Of course ‘m not drunk.”

“How many of those foppish concoctions have you had?”

“Three.” Dorian shrugged. “They really are quite delicious, Major. You should try one.”

Klaus snorted contemptuously. “No, thank you. It smells like a flower shop. Whatever is it made of?”

“Cucumber and rose petal gin, elderflower liqueur, and lemon juice.” Dorian took another mouthful and let it linger on his tongue before he swallowed. “It’s called a French Hen, Major. Appropriate for the season, don’t you think?” Two more swallows emptied the glass. “Quite, quite delicious.”

“Eroica, what the hell do you think you’re doing, sitting here getting sozzled like some lush in a gin-joint?” 

“Well, why not? It isn’t as if anyone cares what happens to me! Christmas has come and gone – no gifts, no cards, not even a phone call from the man I love.” Striking a tragic pose, Dorian held up his glass and called out, “Waiter! Waiter, I’d like another of these, if you please.”

Klaus’s warning glare stopped the waiter in his tracks. “His Lordship has had enough. We’d like the bill. Now.”

Instinctively, the waiter knew which request he needed to comply with, and darted back to the counter. 

Dorian pouted. “Why are you here, anyway, Major? Shouldn’t you be in the bosom of your own family at Christmas time?”

“Bonham told me I’d find you here.”

“Bonham told you—? Where did you see Bonham?”

“At Castle Gloria, you damned fool. Where do you think?”

Dorian blinked, trying to get his thoughts to stop skittering around and focus. “You went to Castle Gloria? Looking for me?”

Klaus stood up and half-lifted Dorian to his feet. “Yes, looking for you, you idiot. Let me drive you home.”

As they passed the counter, Klaus plonked a handful of five-pound notes down in front of the waiter and growled, “Keep the change. Merry Christmas.” 

 

 

 


	4. On the fourth day of Christmas

 

 

**On the fourth day of Christmas my true love gave to me four colly birds**

**_In which love blossoms_ **

 

Slanting sunlight crept through the window of the third-storey bedroom overlooking the gardens. One of the bed’s occupants rolled over and sat up, blinking in the pale light. Combing his dark hair out of his eyes with one hand, he surveyed the wreckage from the previous night’s “party for two” lying strewn about the room: two empty champagne bottles; a plate smeared with the last vestiges of whipped cream and strawberries; a half-empty bottle of scented massage oil; two sets of clothing tossed randomly across the furniture.

He glanced down at his bed companion, who was still asleep. Communal dinners at Castle Gloria sometimes morphed into impromptu parties, and last night, with everyone in a festive mood, the wine had flowed freely. They’d started trading shy glances across the table during the first course. By the time the main course plates were being cleared away, reticence had vanished and they were openly exchanging appreciative gazes full of warmth and invitation. Nobody else took much notice when they left the table, taking two bottles of champagne and a dessert platter with them. 

The dark-haired man’s companion stretched and yawned, his sleep-rumpled red hair sticking up in untidy spikes. “Good morning, gorgeous,” he purred, reaching up to tangle his fingers into silky dark locks and pull his bedmate into a kiss. “Joseph, I think you’re the best late Christmas present I’ve ever had.” 

Joseph laughed. “Rudi, I’ve been trying to get your attention for months. I’d started to think you’d never notice me.”

“I’d already noticed you, you wally. Getting you into bed's been harder than I’d thought it was going to be.” Rudi grinned. “Thank goodness for Christmas parties, hey?”

With a flurry of wings, four dark-feathered birds landed on the window ledge outside.

“Hey, look: blackbirds!” Rudi exclaimed.

Joseph said, “My grandmother used to call them colly birds.”

“Colly?”

“Yeah, colly. As in, black as coal. She came from up north. It’s an old dialect word. She always called blackbirds colly birds.”

“My grandmother was Dutch. She called them merels.”

One of the blackbirds gave a piercing call, and all four took flight at once.

Joseph got out of bed and padded across to the window. “How cold d’you reckon it is outside?” He pushed the window open, and a sharp chilly breeze gusted into the room.

“Hell, are you trying to freeze us? Shut the window, will you?” Rudi burrowed down under the quilt.

Joseph pulled the window closed, and was about to return to bed when something caught his attention out in the garden. “Hey, Rudi. Come and look at this.”

His lover slid out of bed and came over to join him. 

At the top of the steps leading down to the Castle’s broad rolling lawns, Lord Gloria and Major von dem Eberbach stood leaning together, both looking contented and happy. Lord Gloria’s head rested on the Major’s shoulder, and the Major was smiling. 

Rudi slipped his arm around Joseph’s waist. “It’s about time, don’t you think?” he said. “They’ve been waiting longer than we have.” 

As they watched, four blackbirds landed at the edge of the lawn, chirruping happily.

 

 

 


	5. On the fifth day of Christmas

 

 

**On the fifth day of Christmas my true love gave to me five gold rings**

**_In which James revisits happy memories_ **

 

James turned off the overhead light and climbed into bed. The bedside lamp cast a warm yellowish glow that didn’t quite reach the corners of the room, and he smiled in satisfaction: smaller globes were cheaper to run.

Earlier that day, he’d been clearing out his cupboards and had come across some old photo albums tucked away in a cardboard box. He lifted one out now and began flipping through it, remembering the occasions when the pictures had been taken. Parties, picnics, celebrations of successful heists. Holidays at home and abroad. Happy days.

James turned another page. Oh, yes, he remembered _this_ picture well; he recalled the day it was taken as if it was only yesterday – but it was so many years ago now. Life had been simpler then.

Lord Gloria – Dorian – _his_ Dorian – smiled up at the camera, golden curls tumbling over his bare shoulders, tight jeans hugging his slim hips and thighs. Dorian looked so beautiful. James had taken this picture himself. They’d been on holiday, just the two of them, in Morocco. At first, he’d tried to talk Dorian out of going, because of the expense – but secretly he’d been glad when Dorian had ignored his arguments. They’d spent a fortnight together, visiting ancient cities and starkly beautiful deserts, and James had had Dorian all to himself. It had been perfect. 

In the photograph, Dorian smiled languidly at the camera – at James. He was leaning back against the ornately carved head of the bed they’d shared, his hands clasped loosely around one knee, sunlight glinting off the rings he wore.

There were two rings on the hand closest to the camera: one shaped like a delicate gold serpent winding around Dorian’s finger; the other, a wide flat band of gold inlaid with a single large diamond. On his other hand, Dorian wore three finely wrought rings of Moroccan gold filigree work. James remembered those rings so well. He’d bargained for them in the market-place, and Dorian had worn them all through their travels in Morocco.

But then, not long after they got home, Beck had joined the Eroica gang, and he was a handsome brute with his high cheekbones and dark eyes, and Dorian started to ignore James and sleep with Beck. And then it was Jones, thin and supple, and Dorian shared his bed with _him_ for nearly a year. And then there was another one, and another… 

Even so, James had felt certain Dorian would come back to him eventually – until he’d met the Horrible Major.

After that, Dorian didn’t care about any of them. He said he was in love with the Horrible Major – even though the Major treated him badly. For years. 

And now, the Major was here, at the Castle, in Dorian’s bedroom – in Dorian’s bed.

Wistfully, James traced a careful fingertip over the photograph. Blond hair, blue eyes, five gold rings. They’d been happy then, and James would guard those memories fiercely. None of them could take the memories away from him.

 

 

 


	6. On the sixth day of Christmas

 

 

**On the sixth day of Christmas my true love gave to me six geese a-laying**

**_In which the Cook outsmarts the Accountant_ **

 

This small cosy sitting room that looked out onto the kitchen garden was Bonham’s favourite wintertime retreat. Logs blazed merrily in the fireplace, the low table was stacked with the newspapers and magazines Bonham liked best, and it was only a few steps to the kitchen, where fresh coffee was always brewing. And someone had put a plate of home-made ginger biscuits on the sideboard with a handwritten note that read, “Help yourself.”

Cosy, warm and peaceful. Nothing to disturb him. Bonham picked up the latest copy of _Birdwatchers Journal,_ and turned to an article about golden eagles in the Scottish Highlands.

Within seconds, his peace was disturbed by the slamming of a door some way off. Two doors. Three. Getting closer each time. Accompanied by the muffled sound of two raised voices. Next, he heard a door being jerked open and footsteps in the hallway leading to the kitchen.

“James, it’ll _save_ money, you twit!” That was Rafe, the cook.

“No, no, no! You can’t. They’re all laying! All six! Every goose egg is worth money! I sell them to the shop in the village – a dozen every two days!”

“James—”

“And you can’t kill off a source of income—!”

“James—!”

“And you’re supposed to manage the resources better than this—!”

“JAMES! If I can’t kill a goose for tomorrow’s New Year’s Eve dinner, I’ll have to buy something else from the butcher. _Do you understand?_ ”

Bonham could just picture the accountant’s face – indignant fury at the prospect of losing one of the geese that were laying the proverbial golden eggs for him, warring with outrage at being trapped into agreeing to spend more money.

As James’s barely-audible grumbling faded off into the distance, Rafe appeared in the doorway, grinning. He crossed the room and dropped into the chair next to Bonham’s, eyes full of mischief. “Did you hear all that?”

“Couldn’t ‘elp it.” 

“Poor old James. So now that I’ve agreed to leave his precious geese alone, I need to get to the butcher’s shop.”

Bonham tossed his magazine back onto the table. “Give you a lift into town if you like.”

“Thanks!” The cook’s grin widened. “I’m going to pick up a haunch of venison.”

“Venison? James’ll ‘ave a fit!” 

“No, he won’t. He’s as good as agreed to pay for it.” Rafe’s eyes sparkled naughtily. “I’ve had it on order for a week.”

 

 

 


	7. On the seventh day of Christmas

 

 

**On the seventh day of Christmas my true love gave to me seven swans a-swimming**

**_In which Klaus and Dorian consider possibilities_ **

 

By mid-afternoon, being surrounded by the bustle of preparations for seeing in the New Year had begun to put Klaus on edge. Half of Dorian’s men were in the kitchen, preparing a gargantuan New Year’s Eve dinner under Rafe’s direction. The other half were setting up the Yellow Drawing Room for a leisurely after-dinner party to while away the time between feasting and cheering in the New Year at midnight. 

Noticing that Klaus was getting tense, Dorian suggested they leave the boys to their labours and go for a long walk. 

Being out in the crisp fresh air was certainly preferable, Klaus thought, as they strode across broad fields toward the hills behind Castle Gloria. As the Castle receded into the distance, Klaus began to unwind. It felt good to use his muscles again after days of easy living. 

Dorian led the way up into the hills, and they walked nearly two miles along a hilltop path with the wind singing in their ears. At length, the path led them downwards into a shallow valley with a stream flowing through it. About halfway down, the stream bent sharply around a rocky outcrop, and beyond the outcrop the water spread out into a broad pool. 

“Come up here for a minute, Klaus!” Dorian left the path and climbed up onto a rocky shelf about ten feet above the water.

Klaus climbed up to join him. The reed-fringed pond lay beneath them, protected from the wind by the rocky ridge at their backs. A small clump of willow trees, their branches bare for winter, grew on the far bank. At the edge of the water, family group of swans foraged for food – two white adult birds, and their five white-and-fawn feathered offspring. The young birds were nearly as big as their parents, and almost old enough to live independently.

“This used to be one of my secret hiding places when I was a child,” Dorian said. “I used to come up here on my own when I wanted to get away from all the commotion down in the house.”

“I thought you liked commotion.”

“Sometimes. Some kinds of commotion. But when I was a child, there were times when I wanted to get away on my own. My sisters used to get on my nerves, and sometimes my parents would fight. I had all sorts of secret retreats; this was one of them.”

Klaus realised how little he understood of Dorian’s past. “What did they fight about?”

“Oh, all sorts of things. Money. Father’s friends. Me.”

“You?”

Dorian chuckled. “When I was a child, I used to practice stealing by burgling my mother’s and sisters’ bedrooms. Father thought it was funny, but the others didn’t. Mother said that Father was encouraging me to be a thief and a homosexual. They used to fight about it a lot.” A shadow of wistful bitterness passed across Dorian’s face. “She didn’t want me to turn out like him.”

“Your father was a thief?”

“No – but he was gay. He was also bad with money, and more interested in partying than anything else; Mother thought he was irresponsible. I think she put all those things together, and she thought if I grew up gay, I’d grow up feckless.” Dorian sighed. “She thought Father should discipline me for stealing things, but he’d only laugh and say it was the Gloria family’s pirate ancestry coming out. She hated that.” 

Klaus said, “I used to escape down into the kitchens when I was small – but I used to go there because there’d be someone there who’d talk to me, not to get away from people. My father was often busy and didn’t have time for me. The cook used to fuss over me and give me biscuits and cocoa.” He paused. “I think my father had a lonely life, but he never showed any inclination to remarry.”

Below them, the swan family was crossing the pond, a majestic line of silent swimmers.

“Swans mate for life, you know,” Dorian remarked. “This pair has been bringing up their young here for years.”

Klaus snorted. “Swans’ lives are simple. All they have to do is eat and mate.”

Dorian laughed. “Sounds idyllic.” He looked at Klaus, hesitating. “Klaus, do you think we can make a go of this? Of being together?”

“I don’t know. We can’t do it openly – you do understand that, Dorian, don’t you? Anyone connected with me becomes a target; anyone I care about is a point of vulnerability that can be used against me. I’m a bad proposition.”

“I know all that. I understand. But I’m prepared to give it my best shot. Are you?”

Klaus sat silent and still, staring at the grey clouds scudding across the sky. 

Dorian counted the silent seconds in anxious heartbeats. _What if Klaus says no? What if he says it can’t work? What if—_

Klaus turned to his lover. “Dorian, for a long time I thought I could never let you into my life at all. Now that we’ve spent this much time together – well, perhaps it may be possible. It won’t be easy – but it may be possible.”

 _Possible!_ Dorian wanted to throw himself into Klaus’s arms and kiss him; he wanted to pull him down onto the rocky shelf and make love to him then and there – but he knew Klaus well enough to restrain himself. He nodded. “All right. We’ll take it a step at a time. If we both want it, then we can make it work.”

 

 

 


	8. On the eighth day of Christmas

 

 

**On the eighth day of Christmas my true love gave to me eight maids a-milking**

**_In which Klaus is reminded of Castle Gloria’s dark secrets_ **

 

Dorian was still in the bath, and most likely would be for another half an hour or more. Klaus, never one to waste time hanging around, wandered down to have breakfast in the communal dining room the Castle’s inhabitants all used when there was no “company”. 

When His Lordship was entertaining guests, the thieves all assumed their formal roles as members of the Earl’s household staff, but now they were all off duty and in informal mode. As Klaus came in, Jones glanced up from his newspaper, gave him a friendly smile, and went back to his reading. Peters offered him an amiable nod. Klaus had been at the castle less than a week, and already Dorian’s pack of thieves had started treating him like part of the furniture. 

He took a seat at the table. Perhaps he should feel horrified that a bunch of criminals seemed to have accepted him as part of the family, but in truth, he felt completely relaxed about it. He had to admit to himself that he enjoyed the easy camaraderie.

“Morning, Major. Filtered coffee?” Bonham held up a coffee pot. “Or would y’ rather ‘ave Nescafé?”

“Nescafé, please.” Klaus reached for toast and butter.

By the time he’d finished his breakfast there was still no sign of Dorian, so Klaus decided to explore the parts of the castle he hadn’t seen yet.

Unlike Schloss Eberbach, which would still be recognisable to the man who built it, Castle Gloria was a jumble of architectural styles. Dorian had explained to him that the oldest section of the house had been part of a medieval priory, which was then partly demolished and rebuilt as a comfortable manor house in Tudor times. Then, over the following centuries, sections of the castle had been remodelled and extended, each time reflecting the architectural fashions of the day, recording a history in stone and glass of the Earls of Gloria, their tastes, and their ambitions.

Inside, the Castle was crammed with artworks. New works that Dorian had purchased mingled in with the ones he’d inherited, all proudly displayed in the rooms used for entertaining. Others that had been acquired illegally were on display in areas that most guests didn’t get to see.

Turning a corner, Klaus found a corridor that lacked the rich decoration of the front part of the house. He wandered through the nearest open doorway into a long, well-lit room containing an assortment of large tables and practical-looking benches, with tall shelving units all along one wall. Several of Dorian’s men were moving about busily. 

In the centre of the room a large oil painting stood on an easel. Curious, Klaus walked up to look at it more closely. It looked old, its varnish slightly yellowed. In the foreground, two milkmaids in plain country clothing milked a brown cow; in the middle distance, three pairs of similarly dressed milkmaids walked along a well-trodden footpath between green fields, buckets hanging from yokes laid across their shoulders. Klaus squinted at the signature in the corner.

“Vermeer,” a familiar voice said behind him. 

Klaus turned around to see Beck standing there, smiling knowingly. 

“Nice piece, isn’t it?” Beck remarked. “We liberated it recently from the Archbishop’s palace in Zagreb.”

Realisation hit Klaus like a ton of bricks. “This is stolen?”

“’Course it’s stolen, Major, it’s what we do.”

Stiffly, Klaus nodded. “ _Ja._ Of course,” and he headed back to the dining room.

Dorian, seated at the table, looked up with a sunny smile. “Been exploring, love?”

“Yes.” Klaus decided not to enter into any conversation about the Vermeer. “I’ll make myself another coffee. Is there hot water?”

 

 

 

 


	9. On the ninth day of Christmas

 

 

**On the ninth day of Christmas my true love gave to me nine ladies dancing**

**_In which Klaus and Dorian attend a country house ball_ **

 

The Lady Harriet Emsworth’s annual New Year party – always held the day after New Year’s day to allow revellers to get over their New Year hangovers – was a lavish affair. For the last fifty years, Lady Harriet had set the standard in the North Downs for old-fashioned country-house entertainments. She modelled her parties on the social forms fashionable in her youth – but they were anything but stodgy affairs. Expensive wines, gourmet food, first-rate musicians and entertainers: no expense was spared to set the scene. Lady Harriet herself was as high-spirited as she had been when she was a girl, and she encouraged her guests to enjoy themselves to the full.

Dorian and Klaus arrived fashionably late, both dressed in black tie, Dorian wearing sapphire earrings and matching cufflinks. The reception rooms at Emsworth House were packed full of revellers, and there seemed to be as many wine waiters as guests. The clamour of high-spirited conversation was deafening. Drinks in hand, Dorian and Klaus threaded their way through the crowd toward the ballroom. 

Lady Harriet herself was holding court in one corner. “Dorian, darling!” she carolled, as soon as she caught sight of them. “I was just talking about you!”

“Nice things, I hope, Lady Harriet.” Dorian kissed her on both cheeks, Continental-style.

“And who is this?” She looked Klaus over with interest. 

“May I present Klaus von dem Eberbach? A friend visiting from Germany.”

“Charmed, I’m sure,” Lady Harriet purred, a predatory glint in her eye.

Dorian noticed a number of other ladies nearby were eyeing Klaus with the same speculative, assessing gaze as Lady Harriet. “Harriet, darling, we’ll circulate a bit and then come back for a chat. Ta for now,” and he steered Klaus away through the close-packed wall of people.

Dancers whirled about in the centre of the ballroom: men in dark suits, ladies in eye-catching ball gowns. Dorian and Klaus stood at the side, watching the dancing, sipping their drinks. Conversation was impossible in the cacophony of music, laughter and talk that eddied around them.

“Dorian! It’s been simply ages since we’ve seen each other! Come and dance with me!” A woman in a yellow dress shimmering with sequins pulled Dorian out onto the dance floor. Klaus watched, smiling sardonically. At least nobody knew him here, so he should be able to avoid having to dance with anyone.

The music stopped and the dancers applauded. Some drifted off the floor. A lady in lavender chiffon, wearing more diamonds than Klaus had ever seen on one person, went over to Dorian and the woman in yellow; the music started up again, and Dorian danced off with the lavender woman, while the yellow woman tripped happily off the dance floor smiling widely.

Klaus exchanged his empty glass for another full one, and installed himself in a corner to observe the crowd. The music came to an end once again, and the lavender woman was replaced by one wearing green clothes and jewels. Emeralds this time, and plenty of them.

 _Enough of this._ Klaus decided he wanted a smoke. He made his way through the crowd, stepped out through the French doors onto the balcony, and lit a cigarette. Dorian, with his uncanny ability to blend in, seemed at ease here, but this country-house ball was too much like similar occasions his father had made him attend for Klaus’s comfort. As a younger man, he’d been taken to many such gatherings “to meet people” – paraded like a stud bull, he’d thought at the time, by a father who was anxious to keep up the old traditions. Klaus wondered whether Dorian had been similarly seen as “a good prospect” by hopeful mothers, or whether his outrageous behaviour had made him safe from the marriage-market matriarchs from the start.

He was half-way through his cigarette when another man joined him on the balcony.

“It’s a bit of a crush in there, isn’t it?” the newcomer remarked amiably. He extended his hand. “Tony fforbes-Russell,” he said. 

Klaus introduced himself as they shook hands.

Fforbes-Russell lit his cigarette. “Lady Harriet puts on a good show, doesn’t she? She’s turned throwing a party into an art form.” He smiled easily at Klaus. “I saw you come in with Lord Gloria. Dorian’s an old friend. We go back a long way.”

His first cigarette was finished; Klaus thought having another one would be preferable to going back into the maelstrom of overdressed gaiety inside. He lit up for a second time.

“Were you at school with Lord Gloria?” He let his use of Dorian’s title suggest they may not be on particularly familiar terms.

“No, we weren’t; but we’ve known each other since we were children. We used to spend time together in the summer holidays every year. How do you know him?”

“Mutual business interests.” 

Fforbes-Russell nodded, smiling. He finished his cigarette. “Well, it was good to meet you, von dem Eberbach,” and he went back inside.

Klaus finished his own cigarette and considered smoking a third, simply to give himself the excuse to stay outside.

“There you are!” Dorian leaned through the French door. “Aren’t you cold out here?”

“It’s not too bad.” 

Dorian strolled out and leaned on the railing beside Klaus.

“I met your friend fforbes-Russell,” Klaus said.

“Oh, good, I’m glad. Tony’s one of my oldest friends. Our fathers owned a yacht together; Tony and I learned to sail when we were very young. We used to spend a lot of time together every summer. We go back a long way.”

“That was the phrase he used, too. Was he your lover?”

Dorian’s eyes widened in delighted surprise. “Klaus, you’re jealous!” 

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You are!” Dorian straightened up, so his eyes were level with Klaus’s. “Look, if you really want to know, Klaus, we did have a flirtation one summer – but we were just boys! I was fifteen; Tony wasn’t much older. We had huge crushes on each other but it didn’t amount to much more than a few kisses and a bit of innocent fumbling. When we met again the next summer we’d both got over it and we went back to being the best of friends.”

Klaus huffed and took out a third cigarette. “’S not my business, I suppose. Forget I asked.”

“And now an apology?” Dorian chortled; “Klaus, are you feeling all right?”

“For fuck’s sake.” Klaus puffed at his cigarette.

“Sorry. I shouldn’t rag you. Come on, finish up your cigarette and come back inside.” A warm glow surrounded Dorian’s heart. Klaus had been jealous! He cared enough to be jealous!

“Have you danced with all the women yet?” Klaus inquired, crushing his cigarette out.

“As many as I care to. Let’s go and talk to Lady Harriet. She’s a good old stick.”

“Didn’t care for the way she looked at me,” Klaus grumped.

“She looks at any man under fifty like that. Take no notice. Once she starts telling funny stories she’ll stop ogling you; she’ll be too wrapped up in herself to bother.” Dorian held the French door open. “Unless you’d rather dance with me?”

“Don’t start.”

They plunged back into the crowded rooms.

 

 

 


	10. On the tenth day of Christmas

 

 

**On the tenth day of Christmas my true love gave to me ten lords a-leaping**

**_In which Dorian and Klaus attend a point to point race meeting_ **

 

Dorian explained what to expect in the car on the way. “Point to point race meetings are privately run affairs. This isn’t at a public racecourse, it’s on a private farm. The riders aren’t professional jockeys, they’re members of the hunt club. Landowners. Local people. This meeting is strictly invitation-only, hunt club members and friends.”

The thought of Eroica going fox-hunting on horseback hardly seemed credible, and Klaus said so. 

Dorian laughed. “I don’t ride to hounds, as it happens – all that blood and noise and mud, not my style. But the point to point is being held on Lord Grantland’s farm, and it’s a big social event. Everyone who’s anyone will be there. Even some of the jockeys have titles. The people you’re going to meet are something of a ‘Who’s Who’ – the cream of county society. Gentry, nobility – even a few of the newly-rich, provided Grantland likes them.”

They parked the Aston Martin in a field set aside for cars, and walked over the brow of a low hill to the area laid out for the racing. The track covered a circuit of gently undulating country in a bowl-shaped depression between the hills. Some twenty fences, two or three with ditches, were placed at irregular intervals around the course. 

A small crowd milled about, pink-cheeked in the chilly wind, looking happy in spite of the cold. Dorian led Klaus through the throng, pausing occasionally to introduce him to someone, or respond to a cheery greeting. Everyone seemed to know everyone else, and they all seemed on friendly terms.

“Of course everybody knows each other. With a very few exceptions, these are people who’ve lived here all their lives, and their families have been here for generations. Half of them were at school together. A good number of them are related.”

Klaus snorted. “It’s a wonder they let me in.”

“Oh, they wouldn’t have if you hadn’t come with me,” Dorian replied airily. “You’re here on my invitation, ‘The Earl of Gloria and Friend’. Come on, let’s go and get a drink. They have champagne in the refreshment tent.” Dorian led the way to a smart marquee. “Wait here, I’ll go.” He threaded his way through the crowd, leaving Klaus to watch the ‘cream of county society’ going about its business.

Surrounded by so much tweedy Englishness, Klaus started to feel unsettled. The peace and contentment that had seeped into his bones over the past days started to shake loose. All these hearty men and women, in their smart jackets and cavalry twill trousers, with their robust joviality – they seemed friendly enough, but did they really accept Dorian? Naturally, Lord Grantland’s guests would not know about Dorian’s identity as Eroica – but surely his flamboyant lifestyle and foppish demeanour would be anathema to them? Reluctantly, Klaus recognised he felt protective of Dorian. 

Surprisingly, though, Dorian seemed to be in his element. Elegant in blue-grey herringbone jacket and twill trousers, his hair pulled back into a loose braid, he looked completely at ease and not at all out of place. Klaus marvelled at Dorian’s chameleon-like ability to blend in to his surroundings.

An elderly gentleman, dressed in the ubiquitous tweed, appeared at Klaus’s elbow and broke in to his thoughts. “Hello there! We haven’t met. You’re here with young Gloria, aren’t you? Stoddart’s the name, Henry Stoddart. My place is a few miles on from here, toward Cranbrook.”

“Klaus von dem Eberbach.” They shook hands. The old man’s grip was firm.

“German, I take it? D’you farm?”

“I still have the family estate, but I’ve made my career in the military.”

“Army man! That’s the ticket. I had a few years in the Guards myself. How did you meet young Gloria?”

“Mutual business interests.”

That seemed to satisfy Mr Stoddart, and he didn’t probe further. “You’re interested in horses?”

“Not particularly. Lord Gloria wanted me to meet some of his friends.”

“That’s the way. We enterprising chaps who keep country life going need to get to know each other. Has your estate been in the family long?” 

_‘We enterprising chaps—!”_ Stoddart had obviously decided he and Klaus were birds of a feather. “We've had the estate for hundreds of years. My father brought me up to understand the importance of keeping it in the family.” 

Stoddart nodded vigorously. “That’s the way. Tradition. That’s what’ll keep country life going. Tradition and enterprise. World needs more chaps who are prepared to be enterprising.” He nodded toward Dorian, who was heading in their direction with a full champagne glass in each hand. “Young Gloria, now: he’s made something of himself. His father, the late Earl – he let their estate get run down. Well, times were tough, high taxes for the landowner, capital transfer tax when he inherited – but he didn’t really have the land at heart, if you see what I mean. Had to sell the place eventually. Young Gloria surprised us all when he bought it back. Nobody expected him to put the estate back in order the way he did. Manages things very well. Impressive. Of course he’s a pouf – his father was a pouf too, so no surprise he turned out the way he did – but what does it matter? He’s a solid chap. I won’t hear a word against him.”

Dorian arrived at this point, handed one of the glasses of champagne to Klaus, and shook hands with the old man. Klaus wasn’t sure whether he’d overheard what Stoddart was saying.

“They’re bringing the horses in for the next race,” Stoddart remarked, “I’m going to take up my position,” and he toddled off toward the track.

Klaus, sipping champagne, looked carefully at Dorian. “Did you hear what he was saying?”

Dorian’s reply was a peal of laughter. “Of course I did. I have very good hearing, don’t you know? Not that Henry would care whether I heard him or not. He doesn’t care much whether he pleases or offends.”

“Listening to the conversations here, I’ve formed the impression most of these people are fairly conservative. Stoddart seems to be a traditionalist. And yet, he doesn’t care—” 

“That I’m a pouf?” Dorian laughed again. “Henry Stoddart thinks I’m like him: I’m a landowner, I care about my estate and run it well, I mix with the local crowd. I’m an Earl, and he cares about that. We’re County. That’s more important to him than whether I’m gay or not.” He gestured around at the crowd that was now moving out toward the track. “That’s what they all think. And I keep coming to events like this to keep them thinking that.” He twinkled mischievously at Klaus. “I play the part. Camouflage, darling.” Dorian drained his glass. “Come on, drink up. Let’s go and watch the races.”

 

 

 


	11. On the eleventh day of Christmas

 

 

**On the eleventh day of Christmas my true love gave to me eleven pipers piping**

**_In which secret hiding places are considered_ **

 

“I’ll show you another one of my secret retreats,” Dorian said to Klaus after they’d finished lunch.

He led the way to one of the seldom-used sections of Castle Gloria, part of the Tudor wing that had converted the remains of the old Priory into a manor house while Henry VIII sat on England’s throne. 

“Hardly anyone else in the family ever came up here,” Dorian said over his shoulder as Klaus followed him along a narrow wood-panelled passageway. “Mother hated it because it was dark and uncomfortable. The girls thought it was old-fashioned and stayed away from it. For me, it was a good place to get away and be on my own.”

Klaus thought about the gregarious Dorian, who loved being the centre of attention, wanting to get away. These past few days he’d seen glimpses of a darker side to Dorian that carried old scars and waited ready to store up new hurts. He was learning that Dorian had been a child who didn’t quite fit the mould, who’d had to learn to be protective of himself.

Dorian pushed open a heavy dark-oak door, and they stepped into a generously-proportioned room that topped the square tower at the corner of the Tudor wing. “I used to hide away up here for hours, and nobody ever came looking for me. I used to think this part of the castle was mine; my own private world, where I could think and dream, and be alone when I wanted to.”

Rows of casement windows with lattice-patterned panes were set into three sides of the room, giving views across the gardens and the estate grounds beyond. The walls were oak-panelled, handsomely carved – and at regular intervals around the room, the panels were topped with small carved figures. 

Impressed by the craftsmanship of the woodwork, Klaus examined the panels and the carvings closely. There were eleven figures in all, men in peasant clothing playing rustic bagpipes: not the elaborate Scottish pipes of modern times, but plain medieval bagpipes with a mouthpiece, a chanter and a single drone. Each figure was unique, their merry expressions suggesting that whoever carved them enjoyed pipe music.

“This work’s impressive. Do you know who carved these figures?”

“No, we don’t,” Dorian replied. “There’s no record of who the craftsmen were, but we do know that the wood panelling and the carvings were put here by the first Earl of Gloria after Queen Elizabeth I gave the castle to him. The first Earl commissioned a lot of work to beautify the place and make it more comfortable.” He sat down in one of the upholstered window seats, his feet propped up on the stone window ledge, watching Klaus moving around the room looking at each bagpipe-player in turn. “We don’t know what this room was used for in those days. It might have been a school-room or a nursery for Benedict’s children.”

Klaus sat down on a long wooden bench, one of the few pieces of furniture in this unused room. “Your ancestor knew my ancestor Tyrian Persimmon.”

“So he did. Seems like we’re repeating history.”

“Your ancestor killed mine,” Klaus said with a mock-frown. “How much history do you plan to repeat?”

Dorian grinned. “I have no plans to kill you, Klaus, so you can rest easy.” 

Klaus’s reply was a warm, lazy laugh. “So is this still your secret retreat?”

“No; these days, the whole of Castle Gloria’s my retreat from the rest of the world. I share it with my boys because I trust them, and it’s their retreat, too. It’s the place where we can get away from what we’re expected to be, and what we’re expected to do. If you like, it can be your retreat as well, for those times _you_ need to get away.”

“I—” 

Klaus started to say, _I don’t need a retreat_ , but he stopped himself. _What the hell do you think you’re saying, von dem Eberbach? There are plenty of times you wish you had somewhere you could disappear, to get away from the bullshit._

Instead, he let his smile speak for him.

 

 

 


	12. On the twelfth day of Christmas

 

 

**On the twelfth day of Christmas my true love gave to me twelve drummers drumming**

**_In which Klaus considers the protective walls we build around ourselves_ **

 

The flight would leave in thirty-five minutes. Klaus claimed a seat near the back corner of the flight lounge from which he could see anyone who came in. As he did so, he realised he was settling back into professional mode: Iron Klaus, vigilant and observant, always on the alert. It was like surfacing after diving into a deep pool. His ten days at Castle Gloria has been a dive into a surprisingly comfortable pool, but he had to be on duty in Bonn the next day.

On the opposite wall, a row of bright tourist posters reminded departing passengers what they were leaving behind. A small cluster of old stone cottages surrounded by soft green fields. A castle, its majestic battlements rearing skyward. Tower Bridge by night, bejewelled with lights. Drummers from a military band, in red coats and bearskin hats, ranked four abreast and three deep in a display more about impressing tourists than observing military procedure. _This is England,_ the posters suggested; _a land of history and tradition, strength and splendour._

Klaus looked dispassionately from one poster to the next, at the England the advertisers wanted travellers to believe in. Each image, each facet of English life that they showed, was truthful – as far as it went. _Window dressing,_ Klaus thought; _shaping people’s expectations so that’s what they see – so they don’t notice the parts of the country the tourist industry wants swept under the carpet. Distraction._

Distraction. 

He’d always said Eroica was the master of distraction. Klaus himself had been fooled at first by the foppish behaviour, but once he’d seen Eroica at work, all focus and steely intent, he’d understood. His attention had been misdirected – the world’s attention was being misdirected. Eroica was a consummate strategist and a highly skilled operator, and the Earl of Gloria didn’t particularly want the world to know that.

At Castle Gloria these past ten days, Klaus had been able to see another of Dorian’s exercises in misdirection at work. He’d seen him playing ‘Lord of the Manor’ with the rest of the county gentry, and he’d seen each and every one of them succumb to Dorian’s charms, prepared to forgive his eccentricities and over-the-top flamboyance because they understood how much he valued the old forms and traditions and worked hard to keep them up.

None of it was a lie, as such. Dorian thoroughly enjoyed every part he played, and he was quite sincere in his performance – but the truth lay behind the façade. Klaus had seen the true Dorian, in moments hidden from the public eye, where only the most trusted were there to see it. Eroica, pulling off some near-impossible feat. Dorian, emotionally naked in their bed.

The public address system crackled to life with a muffled announcement that passengers should proceed to the gate lounge. Klaus gathered up his hand luggage and boarding pass, and waited for the queue to form up. He’d wait till most of the passengers had gone through. 

While he waited, he looked again at the tourist posters, his eyes lingering on the red-coated drummers. His own military background had been focused on practical soldiering, with quick promotion followed by his secondment into intelligence. Klaus knew something about distraction and camouflage himself, in his trade. It had become second nature to hide his true self behind a wall of deception; he wondered sometimes if it had become too natural, so that nobody knew who he really was any more.

If he was honest with himself, he’d built a wall around his emotions as well. He was very careful who he let in, and most people thought he was a cold, distant bastard. On the surface of it, Dorian was the exact opposite: emotionally fulsome, lavish with his affections; but Klaus had come to suspect that in reality, Dorian guarded his heart carefully.

_Maybe we’re more alike than I used to think._

The public address system crackled once again, announcing “Last call” for the flight. 

Klaus joined the queue.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The Vermeer Klaus discovers in Chapter 8 is fictional, and I have no idea whether the Archbishop's residence in Zagreb would have any artworks likely to be targeted by Eroica or not.


End file.
